


You Catch More Flies with Honey

by kayeherl



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond Being Bond, Bond does not have experience in one aspect of his sex life, M/M, MI6's version of phone sex, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why do I do this, i don't even know what the hell this is, it's weird - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayeherl/pseuds/kayeherl
Summary: “Of course, 007,” Q’d said, folding instantly because this is an important mission and only Bond took it. Everyone else was out of country, and 003 is terribly straight and refused it. “I live to serve. But will it be an issue for you in terms of...” he’d coughed delicately. “Performance?”“Being with a man doesn’t disgust me,” Bond’d purred back, low and entirely too intimate. “The issue has simply never come up. Surely you understand, Q, the general populace is straight.”ORIn which Bond propositions Q to talk him through sex for a mission and things ensue.





	You Catch More Flies with Honey

**Author's Note:**

> ******THE OC IS A PLOT DEVICE EXPLOITED SHAMELESSLY SO THAT THESE TWO CAN GET IT ON DURING A MISSION****** 
> 
> ******HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A NAME, HE ISN'T IMPORTANT AT ALL********
> 
> (Also we're going to pretend that Bond was bluffing when he told Silva that this wasn’t his first rodeo in Skyfall.)

“And you’re sure you’re comfortable with this 007?” Q asks again, just because he can. It’s past midnight in the Q-branch, and everyone else has already left, because everyone else needs sleep. Q is fuelled on caffeine and spite and doesn’t need to bow down to his exhaustion like other mere mortals. He’s watching and listening in on Bond’s movements, as he usually does on 007’s missions. It’s early evening over there, and Bond is making his way towards the hotel the meeting is set up at. 

 

“I won’t be if you keep enquiring, Quartermaster,” Bond says with no small amount of irritation hidden in between the words of the low, pleasant murmur that Bond uses to talk to Q or whoever happens to be on the other end of the comm to avoid immediate detection, and Q is silent for a moment. Bond only calls Q the lofty ‘Quartermaster’ when he’s truly upset with him. Q has also been working with 007 for long enough to hear the thread of tension in his voice, the kind he gets when he’s waiting to take a shot behind a sniper rifle, or the moment before someone rips his earpiece out before a torture session. Yes, Q has heard it all, but never about something so… banal. This is what 007 does, he seduces and he gets information. He seduces  _ women.  _ That’s the only difference about this one, that’s why James Bond, womanizer extraordinaire, has that tension running through his voice at the prospect of a honeytrap. Q can only see what 007 is looking at, not the man himself, but he knows without looking that the tension is reflected ever so slightly in 007’s posture. 

 

The moment of silence allows Q to remember just how they got into this current mess. M had given Q the order to equip Bond for a mission having to do with SPECTRE, and after the recent run-in with a few defected agents 007 was more than ready to accept the mission. Until. 

 

007 had come to Q. Of course, he’d known. The double-oh agents were all trained to see what was beyond the visible, to read between the lines of what is said. So, of course, Bond had turned his gun in--intact for once; probably a placebo for his shocking favor--and asked to speak to Q in his private office. 

 

“I need your help with this,” Bond had said, and Q got a better sense of what was going to go down on this mission. Blackmail to use against a closeted man in return for important intel from SPECTRE. In retrospect, Q realizes that he should have maybe felt violated because he’d spent his entire life pretending that he wasn’t  _ that _ way until after college, hiding every urge and smothering rumors by voraciously going through whatever woman he could get, but the mind-numbing fact that James Bond wanted to be walked through sex with Q on the other end, whispering in his ear the entire time, blindsided all other emotions. Q still can’t fathom it. Surely he’s been with enough women to sort of understand how it works with men.

 

“Of course, 007,” Q’d said, folding instantly because this is an important mission and only Bond took it. Everyone else was out of country, and 003 is terribly straight and refused it. “I live to serve. But will it be an issue for you in terms of...” he’d coughed delicately. “Performance?”

 

“Being with a man doesn’t disgust me,” Bond’d purred back, low and entirely too intimate. “The issue has simply never come up. Surely you understand, Q, the general populace is straight.”

 

The glimmering lights of the hotel are now visible in the small, almost invisible camera fixed in Bond’s tie, and Q doesn’t deny that his heartbeat skyrockets as the imminency of the situation presents itself. 

 

“Approaching the hotel,” Bond says. 

 

“Thank you, 007,” Q says, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “My eyes had stopped working.”

 

He doesn’t even get the faintest chuckle, and usually Bond is amused by poking fun at Q and getting a rise out of it. 007 is as nervous as he is. Their tense words fade into silence once more as Bond turns a street corner and goes into the side entrance of the hotel, straight into the bar. 

 

“Look sharp, 007,” Q says, and stills his hands as they tap along the edge of his keyboard. He puts them to use by hacking the hotel’s security system, focusing on the posh bar on the first floor to the side of the lobby. He sees Bond enter, looking around like any good secret agent does, scoping out the entire room before looking for the target. His tie-camera shifts slightly as he buttons his suit jacket. “Target at the bar. Don’t go straight to him.”

 

“Thank you, Q,” Bond mimics dryly, and Q has to reign himself in. 007 has this part down pat. This is the part that is easy. The man, an asset of SPECTRE is tall, well-built and blonde, and what Q would personally go for--nevermind that Bond also fits that description, because  _ they don’t talk about that _ and Q most definitely doesn’t think about it--and easy on the eyes. It really should be no hardship to seduce him into bed. Well at least Q will, and Bond will parrot whatever Q says. 

 

Q leans forward, waiting as Bond settles himself in at the bar and orders his usual level of toxic alcohol, and preens a bit in the way that only 007 can. At least three girls come up, and Bond gently turns them all down, making a spectacle of it and following Q’s words to shoot the occasional look over at the target and smile whenever he catches his eye. The target has noticed this by the fourth shot Bond has taken, and Q exhales as he moves closer. Bond shifts slightly so that he’s captured on the tie camera, and Q focuses on his face. 

 

“Not finding what you want?” the man asks, sending a charming smile at Bond. He’s french but has lived in other cultured European countries long enough that the accent has faded to almost nothing.

 

“I’m looking for something more exotic tonight,” Bond says effortlessly, and why does Q even need to be here? Bond is an irritatingly smooth flirt and Q envies that. 

 

“Smile,” he grinds out finally, realizing that 007 delivered that line deadpan. Bond complies, giving his shark-like smile with no teeth. 

 

“Oh?” the man asks, and oh, yes, he’s interested. He runs an eye down the impressive figure 007 cuts in his expensive suits, and he likes what he sees. Q can concur.

 

“He likes what he sees,” Q murmurs distractedly. “Tell him yes.”

 

“Yes,” Bond repeats easily, shifting slightly more so that his posture is more open and inviting.  _ Good. _ “Looks like I’ve found it.”

 

And,  _ oh,  _ Q could never be that forward, but then he doesn’t look like 007, where girls swoon into his arms with the most ridiculous of lines. The man just laughs, reaching out and placing a careful hand on Bond’s forearm. “Care for a drink before we go up?” he asks. 

 

Bond pauses, and Q blinks a few times, realizing that 007 wants him to order for him. “Screaming orgasm,” he says off of the top of his head, and that’s also certainly more forward than Q would ever be. But then again, this is Bond. It’ll work. 

 

The pause continues, and even though 007 is scanning the top shelf whiskey as if he’s making a choice, Q hears the low breath Bond lets out, a huff of indignation. 

 

“Dammit, it’s a drink, Bond. Just order it.”

 

“I’ll take…” Bond says lazily, turning back to the target and smiling again, this time the  _ seduction _ grin. “A screaming orgasm.”

 

It’s silent for a moment and Q thinks that he’s gone too for for one terrible heartbeat, but then the man’s eyes go hooded, almost predatory, and oh--this might be a bit challenging, he’s quite obviously a top and Q can’t see Bond being anything other than that. “Coming right up,” he all but purrs, and signals the bartender. He orders a whiskey for himself, and Q can’t help but quip, 

 

“How do you like that screaming orgasm, 007?” and Bond certainly doesn’t choke on it. 

 

“So,” the man says, after finishing his drink and laying his hand on 007’s forearm again. “What’s your name?”

 

Q’s frankly surprised the man asks at all; he’s somewhat of a womanizer according to his file that contains a long list of one-night stands. Kind of like Bond, but not. Q snorts as Bond says, “Bond. James Bond,” in his typical way, and  _ what the hell is it about him _ , because the man makes doe eyes at him. “What’s yours?”

 

“What do you want it to be?” the man asks. Q rolls his eyes,  _ classic _ . 

 

“Q,” Bond says. He purrs it like he’s trying to seduce. 

 

“What?” Q asks, irritated, and then realizes that 007 isn’t talking to him. “Bloody wonderful,” he mutters. 

 

“Interesting choice,” the man says, but he doesn’t look put off by it. 

 

“The nickname of one of my coworkers I’ve imagined fucking for years,” 007 provides smoothly, and now it’s Q who’s choking on his coffee. 

 

“Arsehole,” he mutters when he’s done hacking up a lung. It’s tactically sound, and 007 is a genius to have thought of it, that way if he slips up--something he’s never done before--he’ll sound like he’s just talking to the man. Q shouldn’t feel so exposed. It’s part of the mission. This is business, this he needs to remember. Honey Trapping is just another part of being a secret agent. 

 

“Well,” the man says, and leans forward so that he can lower his voice just a tad, because no matter how free-thinking this new world is, homosexuality isn’t always an accepted. “We’ll see if I can live up to this fantasy.”

 

“Let’s,” Bond almost purrs, and Q belatedly realizes he should still be giving instructions. 

 

“Put your hand on his thigh. High up so it’s intimate and he knows you’re serious about committing to this,” he says, keeping his voice carefully blank still. Bond does as instructed, sucking in a deep breath as he does so, and giving the man another smile. The man gives a sharper, more lust-laden smile and stands, motioning for 007 to follow him to the elevator. Q takes the time when the target’s back is turned to inform Bond of the news. “Bond, I must inform you…” He pauses, trying to think of a delicate way to put this. 

 

“Just tell me,” Bond murmurs, using the backdrop noise of the bar to make sure that his voice is masked.

 

“The target is a top. That means that you’ll have to be the one to--”

 

“I bloody well know what that means,” Bond says, and there it is again, that slight tension pulling his words tighter than normal. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

 

They reach the elevator and Bond leans against the railing. Q switches the camera from the revolving three in the bar to the single elevator. The target certainly doesn’t waste any time. The tie camera goes dark as he presses Bond against the back elevator even harder, in a way that must hurt, and Q sucks in a breath in sympathy. That’s completely why he makes that noise, he’s sure of it. 

 

“A bit eager, are we?” Bond asks, his voice still barely tense, but the man can hardly tell the difference between Bond’s truly seductive voice and his honey trapping one. Only Q knows that. The end of the sentence is cut off as the man kisses him, and though Q isn’t there to see it, he can tell by the noises and the video feed that it isn’t gentle enough to even be called a kiss. Yes, this man is most definitely a top, and Q hopes to god that 007 can manage to submit just this once. He can almost  _ sense _ the way Bond tenses up, and he whispers, quiet enough that even in close proximity, no one can possibly hear him except for 007, “Relax, 007.” Bond makes a muffled noise that must be confirmation, because the hands that had clawed into the expensive suit of the man holding him against the elevator wall relax and slide up to his neck. 

 

Q feels his cheeks flame as he watches and listens to the sound of a deep, deep kiss, deeper than Q’s had the pleasure of experiencing or giving in quite some time. He should’ve gotten laid before this mission. He can already feel the desire mixed with empty  _ wanting _ curled low in his stomach and he mutes the line for just a moment so he can let out a long, thorough string of profanity. It does nothing to help relieve anything, and Q knows that it will only get worse. He steels himself as he notes the elevator has stopped. The doors open, and the target lingers, pressing Bond impossibly hard against the elevator wall for a good five seconds before drawing back to reveal a red-lipped, dazed-eyed Bond. Q wonders how much of that is for show. 

 

“Stumble a little when you get out and keep a hand on his shoulder. Any normal person would be at least a bit drunk with how much alcohol you’ve consumed,” Q says, managing to make it a bit dry beyond the careful detachment he’s implemented. 

 

Bond keeps a and tucked in the man’s arm and does a spectacular job of choreographing a stumble as they get out of the elevator, pressing his muscled side against the target’s as he steadies himself, and Q misses most of it because he’s switching cameras once again. He’ll have to depend solely on the tie camera inside of the hotel room and he hopes that Bond remembers to position it in a way that will allow Q to have a complete view of the bed. To Q’s half-amusement, half-bewilderment, the target takes his sweet time getting into the room, kissing Bond against the wall three separate times--overkill by Q’s standards, and he’s all for foreplay. 

 

They finally get into the room, and the target’s already unbuttoning 007’s jacket and shoving it off of his broad shoulders, leaving the article of clothing that costs more than a few months of Q’s flat rent in a heap somewhere near the door. Bond lets out a small sound, and it goes straight through Q, tightening his stomach muscles,especially since it’s so  _ close _ with the earpiece. He controls his breathing and pulse only with sheer willpower, but he can’t stop his fingers curling into fists atop his keyboard. 

 

The target starts unbuttoning Bond’s shirt, but Bond pushes away, and Q can hear the smile in his voice, that same one he flashed Q as he took the tie. “Why’s it such a light blue, Q?” he’d asked. 

 

“It matches your eyes,”  Q’d managed. “And you have gorgeous eyes, Bond, you should accent them.”

 

“Can I get you to repeat that on camera?” Bond had deadpanned instantly. 

 

“No, you arsehole. I was being pragmatic when I picked it out for you. And as a man who can appreciate other men, I can confirm that you are a good-looking man and this tie accents one of your many good features, as you already know and I really shouldn’t be feeding your ego.” He’d refused to say anything else on the matter, and 007 had eventually left Q-branch to terrorize some other part of MI6. 

 

Now, he steps back so Q can see the confused look on the man’s well-sculpted face. “Why don’t you go lie down, get relaxed, maybe have a drink” he says, motioning to the large bed. “And I’ll give you a show. You won’t regret it, I promise.” It’s good, Bond is thinking this through much more thoroughly than Q would have been able to  in 007’s position. Now, he can position the tie any way he wishes without raising suspicion.  

 

“I hope to God you know how to do a strip-tease because I cannot help you there,” Q murmurs. 

 

“Sounds good,” the target says, and backs up, eyes possessively looking 007 up and down like prize, and there’s a brief, incomprehensible flash of fury that goes through Q. 007 belongs to no one, and this man has absolutely no right to look at him like that. Bond turns with the movements of the man, no doubtedly so that Q can keep an eye on him, and he watches as the target shrugs out of his own jacket, draping it over a coffee table, and quickly follows with his shirt. He’s well-built, a bit less muscular than Bond but makes up for it with his broad shoulders and a waist that tapers quite nicely. 

 

“Feel lucky, Bond,” Q says darkly as he starts calibrating the camera to take pictures every few seconds when he presses a button; that way he’ll be able to catch the progressions of the the entire event without worrying about capturing it and directing Bond to maximize the best position so that he can remain anonymous--as much as he can--while making sure to capture the fact that the target is in bed with a man. He snaps a quick shot of the man as he pours himself a brandy from a fancy decanter on the bedside table and settles down onto the mattress, reaching down with one hand to trace the button of his slacks. Bond moves into slow, languid motion, and makes a noise that sounds appreciative of the man on the bed sipping on his brandy, but has enough of a question in it that Q realizes he never finished his thought. “Your target is a fine specimen.”

 

Bond lets out an amused chuckle of air that reaches only Q’s ears, and his perspective is briefly jerked as Bond slowly releases the knot of the tie, and he’s looking at the floor and 007’s black-shoed feet as he walks the tie over to a chair that swings in and out of view dizzily as Bond casually walks the tie-camera over to it. He spreads it out so that Q has an exceptional view of the bed. He takes the movement to murmur quietly to Q--surprising him, because Q hadn’t expected Bond to talk to him at all, just follow his orders as he saw fit-- “Maybe he’s not my type.”

 

“I didn’t think you had a type,” Q quips back, covering his shock with more snark. “Other than the constant women who swoon at your feet every single time you smile at them.”

 

Bond lets out another amused huff of air and steps away, out of the frame of the camera for a good five seconds, but Q tracks his movements by the way the other man watches him from the bed, shifting slightly, and then Bond is on the edge of the camera, still allowing an expansive view of the bed with bare feet. 

 

“You can move slightly over more,” Q notes, and Bond complies. His back is to Q, but Q knows he’s running his hands over his shirt, toying at the buttons and untucking it from his pants. He goes excruciatingly slow, slow enough that even Q--who is used to dealing with thing moving slower than he’d like--is waiting with bated breath for 007 to get undressed. He turns slightly after he unbuttons his shirt, and it’s far enough that Q can see the soft  light of the room glinting off of toned muscle, and can’t help but suck in a breath as Bond runs his hands along his own stomach, fingers pointing in a V downwards in a very purposeful way. 

 

“Like what you see?” he asks, and it’s loud enough for the target to hear, but Q knows without asking that it’s directed to him. He doesn’t even focus on the target’s response, no doubt something affirmative 

 

“I spilled tea on myself,” Q lies quickly. “It was hotter than I remembered it being.” It’s a ridiculous excuse; he hasn’t gotten up to refill his cup for hours, but Bond apparently buys it because he only makes an affirmative sound, and then ever-so-slowly eases his shirt off and drops it carelessly at his feet with the flair of someone who knows he’s being watched and is enjoying it. He’s not wearing an undershirt, but he more than makes up for it by taking his pants off just as slowly, rolling his hips along with his movements in a completely seductive way that makes muscle shift and strain, and Q bites back another sound, because he very well won’t be able to explain every little sound away as something other than being enraptured by Bond’s show. 

 

When the target’s cock comes out and he begins stroking it unhurriedly, Q snaps a few more pictures manually, making sure to include the fact that Bond is very male and most definitely putting on a show. He’s professional first, making sure that he’ll get the pictures, but the moment he does, he can’t help himself.

 

“Oh, 007 I do feel quite sorry for you.”

 

Bond makes another one of those ambiguous ‘hmms’ that Q knows is directed to him, and he can’t help but smile. 

 

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow.” 007 offers no response to that, but steps out of his trousers and slings them casually towards the chair in what would appear to anyone else as a carefree motion, but he’s aimed it so that it won’t interfere with Q’s vision. He’s left in just his underpants, understated black briefs that cling to an incredible ass and give way to thighs that are thick enough to crush small children with no effort. He’s still moving in that seductive almost-dance, and Q forces himself to watch the target instead of Bond. “We are good to go on this side, whenever you want to get started, 007,” he says finally as Bond is slipping out of the briefs, shaking his ass way too much for it to be strictly necessary. He steps out of his briefs and is left as naked as he was born, and Q feels his pants tighten. He inhales and exhales, controlled, perfectly timed, no different than any other breath he’s taken before, and tells himself to calm down because this definitely isn’t what he’s here for. He can be completely professional about this. 

 

“So, Q,” he says, and Q inhales once again, just a bit quicker than normal. “Are you ready to get this show on the road?”

 

“Oh, yes,” the target purrs, letting go of his cock and reaching over to where he’s somehow come up with lube and condoms. 

 

“Well you won’t have to worry about any diseases, at least,” he notes, and even though his lungs don’t seem to be under his control, his voice still is. 

 

“Good,” Bond says, and Q’s pretty sure it’s to him and not to the target. He moves forward, turning so that he’s in profile, though Q still has a fantastic view of that fantastic ass.

 

“When you go down on him--which is what you’re going to do--” Q instructs, “make sure that you’ve shifted so that I cannot see your face, just that quite manly figure,  unless you want your face in the hands of people who desperately want to blackmail whomever they can.”

 

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you ever since I saw you in the bar,” Bond says, and Q sighs. That’s their pre-agreed-upon term to let Q know that Bond doesn't know how to do whatever it is Q is telling him to do.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” the target purrs, and Q sighs again. God, he's so sexual that it's almost a bore. It's not the good kind of sexual. “Get over here and make it happen, then.”

 

“At least walk towards him while I'm explaining it, 007,” Q instructs. “But do it slowly. You know, like you just stripped.” He can't help but make it a bit dry, soothed be the fact that for once, Bond cannot snark back. Bond complies, and Q almost regrets giving him that order, because surely he doesn't need to shake his ass that much. Q can tell that he isn't aroused as he walks over, turning almost to the camera, but still managing to keep his face hidden in a way that looks natural. “Just think of it how you like it. What are the things that drive you over the edge, 007? You're a smart man, I'm sure you can replicate what's been done to you probably dozens of times.” He sighs and takes a sip of his coffee even though he hasn't been this awake--this turned on--for months. “Don't worry about deep throating if you think you'll gag, just pick up the slack with your hands. Maybe massage his balls a bit while you're sucking him. And for the love of Her Majesty remember, Bond,  _ suck.  _ No one wants a half-assed blowjob. God knows I've been on the end of one too many of those, and not all of your lays can by bloody perfect.”

 

“As you wish, Q,” Bond purrs, and it's so sexual, so beyond the minimal flirting he employs around Q when he's in a good mood. Q breathes in a bit sharper than usual as Bond situates himself so that he's hovering over the target, who captures his mouth once more, curling a hand around Bond’s head and holding him momentarily in place. Q can see Bond’s muscles shift,heavy under the skin and reflecting the light, and he knows how hard it is for someone like Bond to let someone else hold him captive in his most vulnerable state. He's so used to being in control.

 

“Shh,” Q says before he can stop himself. “It's okay to relinquish your almost obsessive compulsive control you have on everything all the time. Let yourself relax, let yourself be lead. Who knows, you might actually like it.”

 

Bond finally manages to break the kiss and growls low in his throat, and that sound should be threatening, not send a bolt of arousal straight to Q’s cock. This time, he can't even find the mind to find a half-good reason for that noise, and Bond doesn't ask, breath deepening into the same rhythm it always does when he's honey trapping. It's disconcerting to hear, so smooth and controlled. 007 just slips down the man’s body, and Q is treated to the sounds of James Bond sucking cock and the visual of Bond’s head bobbing up and down rhythmically in time with his breath. He's obviously quite talented with his tongue and a goddamn fucking prodigy because the target is moaning in no time, and Q is getting all sorts of good pictures of Bond’s shoulders shifting as he makes himself more comfortable.

 

The bastard deep throats him probably out of spite. Q hears Bond gagging and makes a very soft, not-as-concerned-as-he-should-be sound and something miraculous happens. 

 

Bond’s perfect rhythm stutters when he hears that noise. His breathing hitches, and Q cannot take this, he cannot do this, he cannot. 

 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “This is bloody brilliant.” Bond pulls off with a pop and makes a contented hmm that Q quickly realizes is actually a question, and he presses his hands to his eyes, taking in a deep breath and letting it out. “Why the hell did I let you talk me into doing this goddamn mission, Bond?”

 

007 pulls back and shifts so he's hovering over the target again, and his breathing isn't rhythmic at all. “I want--I want you to take your clothes off, Q.” His voice is deep and just a bit rougher than usual, courtesy of the dick down his throat just a few moments ago, and Q has never heard a sweeter sound. 

 

Q freezes, heart actually stuttering in his chest for a good few seconds before finding it's footing again and tapping out a rhythm much faster than his doctor recommended.  “I hope to God that you're not talking to me, 007,” he manages to say, but it's not in the dry tone of voice he's been using this entire time. No, he sounds much too attached. 

 

He misses the target’s response, but Bond purrs into his ear, “Oh, yes, Q. I want to see every inch of your bare flesh.” Which is utterly ridiculous, some sane part of his mind insists. Bond can't even see him.

 

“I cannot believe you, 007. I'm a professional--” Q protests over the sound of the target asking why.

 

“I know I turn you on, I heard those noises, you'll turn me on even more if I can see some skin.” Ah. Q nods his head once. This will help Bond get his libido up, which is needed to keep the rouse up long enough to get the necessary photographs. He will not ask why Bond needs  _ this _ specifically, because that can come at a later time. Right now, he has the obligation to get these photos, and it doesn’t matter how.

 

“I assume you just want me to talk dirty to you since you cannot actually see me,” Q says, managing to have recaptured some of himself in this utterly ridiculous situation. 

 

“Yes,” James hisses out as the target reaches out and grasps Bond’s limp cock and begins pumping it. Q definitely knows this is for him. 007 can go an entire night making love to a woman without making a sound. 

 

Q drags in a deep breath, not even trying for normalcy at the moment as he looks around, quadruple-checking that he is truly alone, and then lets out a sigh. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s get started.” He keeps an eye on the screen, watching the two men on the bed and the careful click of the camera every few seconds. The target shucks his trousers and underwear off in one go, tossing them to the other side of the room without looking, and grasps Bond’s shoulder, pulling him down for another kiss while reaching with his other hand to stroke 007 again. “I’m taking off my cardigan and shirt, Bond, that’s it. It’s cold in here.”

 

Bond moans so dirtily, Q interprets it as a laugh and coughs to hide his own snickers. This is ridiculous. “Keep going,” he purrs, looking into the target’s eyes from where they’ve turned so both are in profile to Q’s point of view, but Q knows-- _ knows _ \--it’s just for him. 

 

It has the tone of a dare rather than a plea, and Q sets his lips. “So bossy, 007. I thought I was your Quartermaster.” Bond lets out another ‘hmm’ but doesn’t say anything else, just runs his hands across the target’s chest and abs, dipping lower to tease the tip of his cock. There’s absolutely no denying that Q’s own pants are exceptionally tight, especially from the express permission 007 has given him, and he hesitates for only a moment to spare a thought for how utterly  _ unprofessional _ this is before he cups himself through his pants, just momentarily to let himself get used to the idea that he is essentially going to jack off to porn in the office; albeit live porn for a mission. “Oh, God,” he says more breathily than he originally intended, and Bond jerks his head up ever-so-slightly, thrusting shallowly into the man’s hand. “I don’t think I’ve been this hard in a long time.” He lets out a sigh as he pops the button on his trousers and unzips them slowly, savoring the moment. His breath catches again as his too-hard cock springs free from the confines of his underwear, curving against his stomach. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I don’t have lube.”  There’s another change in breath from Bond, and Q recognizes this one as 007’s laugh-without-laughing. How the bloody hell has he gotten so used to Bond’s every small sound?

 

_ Well, there’s the fact that you’re completely infatuated with him,  _ a sane part of his brain points out, likely the same one that was speaking earlier.  _ Bugger off,  _ he tells it, and rummages in his desk for something-- _ anything _ , and ah, yes, there’s his vaseline he keeps on hand for when he gets too involved in a project and licks his lips chapped. That will work nicely. 

 

He looks up to see Bond’s head down again, and though the quality isn’t top notch, he is pretty sure that 007’s eyes are closed, concentrating. Oh, right, Q’s supposed to be dirty-talking to him. “Look at you,” he finally purrs, and Bond jerks his head ever-so-slightly again, and repeats the shallow thrust into the target’s hand. “God, I’d suck you in a heartbeat,” Q says, and that isn’t a lie at all. Bond has a cock that fits him well. It’s not exceptionally long, but makes that up with considerable girth, and Q would love to get his mouth around that. Q closes his eyes for the briefest second, reaching down with vaseline coating his hand to start a lazy rhythm. “Do you want to hear a dirty little fantasy I’ve had, Bond?” he asks, his voice low. It’s nothing compared to Bond’s seductive voice he can shape and bend to his will to have women in his snare like lightning, but Bond thrusts again, and Q can see he’s getting hard, finally. He takes that as a yes. 

 

“That’s it,” he hears the target murmur, and bats it away like an annoying fly. 

 

“You’re sitting at M’s desk, but she’s not in there,” he begins, ears burning, because this isn’t proper workplace behavior. If M ever found out, she’d skin him alive and perhaps disembowel him over a period of twelve days after that. “You’re waiting for her, because you’ve been a naughty, naughty agent and haven’t brought my tech back again, and she wants to see you because that was a bloody expensive car you crashed in the river.” He takes a deep breath and focuses again. Bond is trying not to laugh, Q can hear it. “What you didn’t know is that I’m under her desk, installing some new hardware into her computer to boost the firewalls. And I don’t want to let this opportunity go to waste, so I reach over and start running my hands up your legs, just to let you know I’m there, since you’re particular to killing people that don’t let you know where they are first. 

 

“‘Q’ you say, and I say back, ‘How did you know it was me?” Q takes a deep breath, feeling his own desire curl low in his stomach, and he has to take it down a notch. How many times has he gotten off to this fantasy? Too many. “And then you say, ‘Because you’re the only one who would be under M’s desk without her supervising every single little move.’ And I laugh because you’re completely right, and then I keep running my hands up your legs, never going above the knee, because I still don’t know if you want me or not.”

 

“God,” Bond gets out, from teeth that seem to be clenched. “I want you.”

 

Q feels a rush of pleasure to that, and he lets out a breathy moan as he circles his finger around the tip of his own cock momentarily, hips jerking at the sensitivity. He’s drowned out the target completely, all the horribly cheesy things he’s saying that most definitely aren’t getting Bond off they way they should. “And you tell me that. Well, not with your mouth, but you grab my hand and put it on your thigh, and I slowly inch it over until I can feel you, aching hard in one of those ridiculously expensive suits you have on all the bloody time, and  _ God _ that gets me all hot and bothered, because I know that I’m not letting you leave there until I’ve satisfied you and myself. I don’t even undress you at first,” Q drops his voice down to a whisper, head leaned back, eyes closed, and body flushed with pleasure and adrenaline. “I just mouth at your hard cock through your pants, and you grab my hair, petting it and leading me to where you want me to be. You let me do this for a few minutes before you can’t stand it anymore, you need to feel my mouth wrapped around that thick cock. So I unzip you and swallow you down, and you can't help but make a little noise because that surprised you.”

 

Q opens his eyes for the briefest of moments, seeing that 007 is thrusting into the palm of the target’s hand with a purpose now, one hand clenched around his shoulder and his head down, breathing doing that uneven gasp in and long, slow exhale. It’s much better than what he’s heard for 007’s other missions. Q takes the moment to allow a little pride to warm his chest.  _ He’s  _ the one doing this to Bond, not the man touching his dick, and somehow that makes it even better, because he’s not even touching him and he’s turning him on. 

 

“I start jerking myself, still sucking you off, and then M comes in. You can’t get out of this situation now, and you’re close, I can feel you slowly losing control over your body, giving over to the pleasure, and so you just sit there and take it as M reprimands you for failing to do a mission cleanly. She’s still yelling at you when you come, shaking muscles and fucking right into my mouth and I take it because I can, I can deepthroat you, James.” That isn’t supposed to come out, but Q doesn’t bother correcting himself, and Bond whips his head up at the sound of his first name, groaning ever-so-slightly. “You come, pouring your cum down my throat, and I swallow it all. M asks you if you’re okay, because you have to keep your eyes on her the entire time, but you’re a good boy, you don’t make a single sound,” Q says, wrapped up in the fantasy once again. It’s dirty, something he’d never actually do, but that’s why it’s a fantasy and not something in reality. “You’re good enough that she doesn’t even suspect a single thing, and you leave, barely managing to zip your trousers before you stand up, and I finish hooking up the tech.” Q shudders, gritting his teeth to keep his orgasm at bay, and Bond jerks forward, hand tightening on the target’s shoulder, and he comes with a low growl in his throat, holding completely still as he spends himself on his own stomach and the target’s hand. 

 

Q lets out another sound, this one much louder and he doesn’t bother cutting it off halfway through. He’s released his aching cock to lean forward and make sure the camera is still working properly, and just stops and looks at Bond, caught up in his post-coital bliss, face relaxed as much as it can be for a man like him

 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathes as James tilts his head back, still angled slightly away from the camera as he rides out the after waves of his orgasm, and the target waits until he’s released his shoulder to lay him down, purring something about how he comes like a storm and he’ll have him coming again in no time, and for once, Q agrees with him, at least on the first part.

 

“Don’t stop,” 007 growls in that low, rough seductive voice that isn’t trying to be anything at all, and it goes straight to Q’s cock. 

 

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about doing this?” Q asks. “Not--not this particular scenario,” he corrects quickly, and Bond still has his wits about him enough to huff out a quick laugh as his hips are propped up for easy access, shifted around, and 007 turns his head away from the camera, lying it on his forearm. Q wishes he could see Bond’s face, just for a bit, but it’s better this way. “But hearing you come undone like that. You’ve never done that before. I’d begun to wonder if you could.”

 

“Yes,” Bond says, more of a breath. “For you.” Belatedly, Q realizes that Bond didn’t just compromise the entire mission to say that, because the target asked him to prep himself. 

 

“I’ll talk you through this, Bond,” he says. “I’ll tell you what I do.” Bond makes a sound of affirmation as he reaches back for his own ass, fingers sliding inexpertly along his crack. “I go slow, so it doesn’t hurt at all,” Q says. “Start by just touching yourself, barely doing anything at all. If it were me, I’d eat you out, but that’s just me.” Bond growls, low and a touch short of…  _ wanting.  _ Q takes a deep, long breath and tries not to come all over his computer right there because that would be hell to clean up and hard to explain. “Oh, god,” Q says quietly. “Do it one finger at a time, one knuckle at a time, and use lube, it will make it much more enjoyable.” He manages to make it sound nearly clinical, a last-ditch attempt at professionalism, and why is he even bothering? 

 

Bond follows his instructions to a tee, and soon he’s pumping two fingers in and out of his ass, slow, smooth, like this isn’t his first time doing it, and he grins lazily down at the target. “I want you inside me,” he says to the target, but it’s empty of anything but the ultimate and utter charm 007 seems to exude at all times, and that makes Q smile just a bit, because Bond just gave him the most genuine show of emotion he’s ever seen from the agent. He introduces a third finger slowly, and moans, and it’s so lewd that it makes Q blush, just a bit, and he’s lucky there’s no one to see that, because he’d have to kill them, because James Fucking Bond shouldn’t even have the ability to make him blush like a teenage schoolboy looking at porn for the first time. 

 

“That would be your prostate,” he says airily as Bond’s breathing hitches again and this time the sound is much more genuine. “ _ That _ is likely how you will be able to come again tonight. I bet you could come without anyone even touching your cock, just pounding into you as hard as possible, hitting your prostate every single time, so much that you’d hardly get a break from one thrust to the next--”

 

“Fuck,” 007 says, softly, as he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound and beckons the target closer. “Fuck me,” he says, and the target complies, slicking his cock down with lube and fucking into Bond’s ass just the way Q had described. Bond makes these little noises, no doubt for the target, each time the target hits his prostate, and Q begins jerking off again. “My God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, and Bond lets out a noise that’s a bit different than the rest, more genuine. “But you already know that.”

 

“More,” Bond demands. The target picks up pace, and Q almost rolls his eyes. Bond is such a  _ needy _ chap, but he’s more than happy to comply, of course. 

 

“The first time I saw you, I wanted to kiss that goddamn smirk off of your face and suck you off as you leaned against my desk, because then maybe I’d crack that fucking mask you have on all the time, all cool civility and unruffled feathers. I’d make you come undone, I’d have you begging for release.”

 

“Yes,” Bond breathes, and the target is doing a magnificent job of being a perfectly boring partner, keeping his pace even and the position is nearly too mundane for even Q, who prefers the simpler pleasures in life. But apparently what he’s saying is enough for Bond, because his cock is hard again, tight against his rippling stomach, leaking precome like a champ, and Q is right, he  _ does _ come without even being touched, right as Q hisses into his ear something along the lines of, “I’d let you fuck me over my desk, hard as you wanted, and I know you want to James, don’t you?”

 

And then Q is coming, too, with a moan that resolves itself out to be Bond’s name, and the world whites out for one, brilliantly perfect moment, and Q’s hand claws around his desk chair, his legs shaking with the force of his orgasm, and then, he opens his eyes once again, to see 007 looking directly at him, right at the camera, looking all sex-flushed and disheveled, and pulled apart at the seams, and then he grins, slowly, lazily, and less edged and angled than usual. It’s just for Q, and Q breathes in sharply. 

 

The target has flopped down beside Bond, and is panting hard, and he’s hardly of any consequence anymore, quickly drifting into sleep, and Bond waits until he’s snoring, head lulling to the side as he disappears into himself. Q tucks himself back into his pants, straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair and tries to find a shred of self-decency but generally fails. He takes a peek around the office once more. It’s still blessedly deserted, and he reaches forward to shut off the camera. While they’re waiting until it’s safe for Bond’s extraction, he flicks through some of the resulting pictures, and finds the one where Bond is smiling at him.  _ That  _ certainly isn’t fitting for an agent of 007’s status. His fingers hover over the keys to delete it, but he hesitates for a few heartbeats, and then, in a flash decision, prints a picture for himself and folds it quickly, placing it in a pocket. Then, he deletes it, just so he can keep this little slice of Bond to himself. The rest look good, the agents will have their pick of good pictures to blackmail the target with.

 

When the man is snoring, Bond carefully makes his way off of the bed and begins dressing. He’s all ease and grace, limbs languid and almost loose, and slowly puts his clothes back on, taking his time to button his suit jacket and shirt sleeves, and positions his tie just so. 

 

“Thank you, Q,” he says in a low, even tone, and Q sucks in a breath, not expecting Bond to talk to him so soon after. “You made it… quite more manageable.”

 

_ Quite more manageable. _ Not exactly what Q was hoping for, but more than he was expecting. “Of course, Bond,” he says primly. “Happy to help. Just doing my job.”

 

“I see,” Bond says, and it’s a touch colder, a touch more 007 than the James Bond Q just witnessed, and  _ oh _ maybe that wasn’t the thing to say. Q opens his mouth to correct himself, but Bond is already saying, “I’ll see you back at MI6, Q,” and then the tie goes dark, and he’s left on an indrawn breath and a denial, an explanation on the tip of his tongue, and memories. 

 

“Well,” Q says to the empty room. “I’m royally knackered.” He gets up and goes home to feed his cats and maybe catch a few hours of sleep until he has to report back and give a mission report, and tries to not feel like he’s missed the opportunity of his lifetime, that one moment that only comes once and is blinding like the sun. 

  
  


00800

 

“And you managed to complete the mission successfully, without any setbacks?” M asks. Q clears his throat and shifts slightly as he looks down at the file folder that contains the pictures of the target and Bond that are least revealing of their agent and most revealing of the target. He refused to look at any of them in the morning when he came back, slamming the flash drive onto one of his minion’s desks and demanding that the semi-scared man look through the pictures and find the best ones to his qualifications. Then, he had someone else double check the minion’s work, and about ten photos are now sitting on M’s desk, and Q has absolutely no idea which ones they are. 

 

“None, M,” Q says, and M’s sharp eyes watch him closely for a moment before turning to look back out the window. 

 

“Good, good. I appreciate you taking one for the team this time, Q.”

 

“”007 did more of the work than I did,” Q says softly. 

 

M looks back at him again, and this time she doesn’t look away. “I’m speaking of you being able to put yourself out there. I know you were probably persecuted in your youth for your… preferences and it is not ideal for you to put yourself out there like that.” Her voice has softened just a bit, and it makes Q’s hackles rise. 

 

“I appreciate your concern, M,” Q  says, trying to keep the stiffness from permeating his voice, and mostly succeeds, “but I am not a closeted man. While I am not forthcoming with my preferences, as you call them, I am in no means in hiding. I don’t care who knows, not really.”

 

“Very well,” M says, all back to business, and she turns back to the window. “I trust this won’t interfere with your professional relationship with 007.”

 

“Oh,” Q says and doesn’t manage to keep an ounce of the bitterness out of his voice. M doesn’t look back at him, even though he’s entirely sure she hears it. “I wouldn’t worry about that at all.”

 

“Good,” she says. “You are dismissed.” Q nods his head respectfully at M’s back even though she can’t see him and leaves her office quietly, cursing himself and the situation, and James Bloody Bond all the way down to the Q branch. He finds it in a state of disarray when he returns, which was not how he left it, and rolls his eyes.

 

“Can I not leave you alone for more than five minutes?” he asks the nearest minion, who looks up at him just a bit nervously and Q wouldn’t have it any other way. Respect only comes to him in the form of fear, and the only alternative is someone looking down on him for his slight, unimpressionable frame, or his mop of dark, unruly hair, or the glasses that singled him out as a target both in school--and prison.

 

“One of the double-ohs is down here,” the minion says and Q rolls his eyes. It’s probably 004 back from her mission in Istanbul, and she’s almost as bad at bringing back the tech as Bond is. She thinks that charming smile can get her the moon, and she’s mostly right. Q can’t stay mad at her for long. All of the double-ohs seem to have that in common. Q knows it can’t be Bond back already to cause this level of upset. He has a routine of disappearing for a few days after each mission, sometimes weeks, when he gets a bit too emotionally attached to a mark or something happens that reminds him of his pasts, and when he comes back, he’s the world’s most amiable sociopath, just with some feelings he pretends not to feel. Q has read the file of James Bond, and he knows exactly what happened with Vesper, and how Bond has never gotten that attached to anyone since. 

 

Q has a feeling it’ll be weeks this time. He’s not flattering himself, it’s not because of him. It’s more about the fact that Bond’s mark was a man. He’s read Bond’s file, and there’s definitely more of a reason than ‘the general populace is straight, Q’ to explain 007’s lack of sexual relations with men. He has no doubt that when Bond shows his face again, there will be no remainder of whatever happened between them present. It’s a shame, really, Q thinks as he walks through Q branch and quells the agitated minions with a few well-placed looks. Getting laid by Bond isn’t the worst thing Q can imagine, and he’s woken up from one of  _ those dreams _ with James Bond’s name on his lips and cool grey eyes looking straight into his soul as he luxuriously pounded into him. And even more than that--though Q wouldn’t admit this even under torture--he wants to know Bond better, the way he thinks, why he does what he does. He wants to know what goes on in that chillingly simplified mind where there is no such thing as right and wrong, just orders and training. 

 

_ Nevermind that, _ Q tells himself as he straightens his shoulders and prepares himself to face whichever of his favorite demons have decided to plague him today. “Which one of you twats has dared to come into my branch without express permission from Q or myself today?”

 

No answer is immediately forthcoming, and Q rolls his eyes as each of his minions avert their eyes from him and refuse to give any tells as to the location of the agent. Ah, so someone he’s had a fight with recently.  _ Not Bond, _ obviously, but someone else. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

 

“If this is about the exploding ballpoint pen, 009, I will personally kick you out onto the tracks of the Tube at Victoria Station the next time we meet in public.” Nothing. Q sighs and shakes his head, and lets himself into his office. It’s dark and cool and quiet, a nice reprieve from Q branch proper. “Well someone’s mucked it up quite a bit out there,” Q mutters to himself as he locks his office door behind him so no one can come and bother him. “Bloody double-ohs.”

 

Q doesn’t even hear the agent behind him, but he feels the air move in a way it most definitely shouldn’t in this ventless room, and it’s too close to him to be anything else, and then he’s pressed against his door, glasses set askew on his nose and his cheek to his knees against the wood, with someone very hot and very solid pressed against his back. Male. Dangerous. 

 

“Ah, so it’s you I have to thank for disturbing Q Branch, 007,” Q says loftily, as if he’s not trapped against the locked soundproof door of his office by one of the most lethal people he knows. 

 

“Hello, Q” Bond purrs into Q’s ear, and Q has to force himself not to shiver because Bond’s lips brush against the shell of his ear as he speaks in a way that he knows Bond is doing very much on purpose. 

 

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Q says. “You decided not to take a vacation?”

 

Bond releases him, and Q turns to face him. Bond looks like he hasn’t slept, which is a great look on him, turning that wolfish beauty into something more carnal but no less breathtaking. “I was ordering a ticket to Bali,” Bond says offhandedly, “but then I found this.” He obtains a folded piece of paper from God knows where, and presses it against Q’s chest, where he can probably feel the way Q’s heart is pounding against his ribcage, bird-quick. 

 

Q takes the piece of paper, but already has an inkling of what it will be. “I assume you hacked into my computer,” he says faintly as he looks down at the picture of Bond, the one he printed last night. Or this morning. Whichever. 

 

“You really need better security,” Bond says, like Q hasn’t programmed his security with a constantly shifting entry point and a near AI system that detects and wards off any attempts at remote or on-computer hacking. 

 

“Really, Bond, I’m amazed at your intelligence sometimes. You certainly don’t look it.”

 

“Thank you, Q, I’m touched.”

 

“Cut the shite, Bond. Why are you here and not halfway around the world with a gorgeous girl on your arm, drinking away your limited feelings?” Q asks sharply, because he really isn’t in the mood to play 007’s games today. 

 

“I wanted to speak with you,” Bond says simply, as if it’s that easy, and Q snorts in an undignified way. He pushed Bond back from him enough so that he can go sit on the edge of the desk, and assumes the posture of someone who is very closed off and unreceptive to what 007 has to say. 

 

“About what, exactly? Because if you ask if someone else can cover your missions, then the answer will be  _ no.  _ I am perfectly capable of maintaining a professional face, despite what has transpired between us. It was simply for the mission and we can put our feelings aside--assuming you have any, which I’m going to go with the safe bet and say that  _ no you don’t-- _ and continue to work as a team. What do they always say here?” Q asks viciously, voice rising in volume and intensity. He’s watching Bond for any sign of… anything, but 007 is standing still in the center of Q’s office, hands loose at his sides and face lax. That goddamn mask. “Lie back and think of England.”

 

“I’m not going to ask someone else to cover my missions, Q,” 007 says carefully, like he’s afraid talking too quickly will set Q off again. “I’m not here to tell you to distance yourself from me. _ You _ were the one who said that it was just part of the plan, and I believed you until that.” He points to the picture, set down sometime during Q’s tirade. “ _ That _ isn’t something for the mission.”

 

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Q asks, voice quieter now, and he looks down at the picture. “I understand if  _ you _ feel the need to distance yourself from  _ me _ , Bond. I will be able to maintain a professional relationship with you and you need never worry about anything relating to what happened on the mission again.” He looks up into Bond’s unreadable eyes. “It was bound to happen sometime. You’re a prime physical specimen with enough charm to sell ice to the Eskimos, and with the way I am, I’m bound to feel something. It will pass.”

 

“I don’t want to distance myself, Q. That’s the last thing I want.” Bond says, and this time it’s as if the words are hard to get out, and for the first time, Q can see the struggle in 007’s stillness, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “And I don’t want it to pass,” he says a moment later, and it’s like it shatters the glass ceiling that is 007, and all that is left is James Bond, the man, who is utterly taken apart in a way that no one has seen for years--if ever. Q is stunned into silence as he looks at Bond’s face, without it’s masks and charming smile more lethal than any knife, and he  _ sees  _ what Bond really looks like. “I want you.” Three simple words. Vulnerability that Q has never seen from this man.

 

And  _ fuck,  _ if Q doesn’t want Bond, too. He surges forward before he can fully complete that thought and takes Bond by his fucking ridiculously expensive lapels and shoves his mouth onto Bond’s. It has absolutely no finesse, no seduction, but he needs this contact. Bond comes alive under Q’s touch, hands sliding into Q’s hair, along his back, squeezing his buttocks, reaching between them to begin tugging at the sweater Q is wearing. They break apart long enough to get Q’s sweater off, and then Bond is running his hands down Q’s chest, and he bites at Q’s neck like the animal he is. “Last night all I wanted was this,” he whispers into Q’s ear, as if they aren’t completely alone, as if it’s a secret. Q pulls Bond closer and whispers his name back. 

 

“James,” he says, and the result is instantaneous. Bond surges forward, all coiled energy without an outlet and shoves Q back into his desk, and Q wraps his legs around Bond’s midsection, feels that he’s already hard, and he grins into Bond’s mouth. Bond pulls away with a noise of inquiry and sees the look on Q’s face, understanding lighting his eyes a moment later. 

 

“You are a nasty thing,” he tells Q adoringly, and runs a hand across his cheek. 

 

“I am,” Q agrees. “No why don’t we make use of this desk?” Bond readily agrees without words, and their clothes are flung across the room and there’s nothing but the noises they make between them.

 

Q wonders briefly in the back of his mind as Bond bends him over his desk and Q flattens his palms against the wood and stares at his fingers as James does something utterly magical to his cock, if being fucked by James Bloody Bond will be as good as he’s always imagined, and then he stops thinking at all as Bond begins preparing him, just the way Q had talked him through it not twenty-four hours prior.. 

 

Quite a few minutes later, and with a trained killer sitting beside him on the floor and playing with the buttons on his shirt, basking in the post-coital glow that he’s missed for a long time, Q smiles. 

 

It is. 

**Author's Note:**

> Good lord. I'm really unhappy with the ending, but I couldn't find a good way to end it? It's better than what I originally had but it's still not good. I might change it later. Idk. Let me know what you think! Anyhow, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Kirk Out


End file.
